Tag Archives: birthdays

Tuesday night it’s 1972 and Karen invites me back to her hotel room outside of D.C. after some angry political rally for a cause I never bothered to find out. Wednesday night it’s 1985 and Samantha is whipping her hair in my face while we screw in her parents’ living room. She has awful blowout hair but an amazing ass, which makes me feel better about not seeking her out in 1987 when she’s actually legal. I Afterwards, I decide to check out 1987 anyway, and I wake up Thursday morning with three Eastern European blondes on a ski trip in Colorado. Even if I knew their names, I probably couldn’t pronounce them. Friday night it’s 1963 – or it’s 1967, and I’m on too much LSD – and despite the fact that “Moonflower” hasn’t shaved her body in years, she has the most perfect pair of tits this side of the wonderbra. For a moment I wonder just what “Moonflower” means, anyway, but then she’s howling like a werewolf on top of me and I stop caring. Saturday night, I’m with Daisy in 1998. The sex is so rigorous that I have to excuse myself to the bathroom to go back to the present and rest for a few hours before returning back to her a minute after I left to continue the marathon. Daisy knows how to handle things like no woman I’ve encountered. Sunday morning, I eventually fall asleep and forget to leave.

When I wake up, Daisy tells me that her name is Walter Lancott, and that she grew up in Asbury Park, New Jersey. I’m never going to 1998 again.

By Sunday night, I’ve returned to the future, my present, hardly looking chronologically towards the impending work week. I’d skip it entirely, but I have responsibilities. People throughout history who depend on me, and the services we offer. I go upstairs and open the door to hallway closet where I add seven marks to the wall. I keep a running tally of the women that I’ve slept with because it lets me know how long I’ve been alive.

Happy Birthday dear Karl Marx, Nellie Bly, Tammy Wynnette, Michael Palin, Chanel No. 5, John Rhys-Davies, Yossi Benayoun, the Battle of the Wilderness, Craig David, Adele, Brooke Hogan, Carnegie Hall, West Germany, the 27th Amendment, Kurt Loder, Harold Miner, railways in continental Europe, and the defeat of the French at the Battle of Puebla by the Mexican army under Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín which most Americans mistakenly label as Mexico’s Independence Day which is actually September 16th according to Wikipediaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I love you, Bridget Moynahan,
but seem to be the only one.
Tom Brady had his way with you
and knocked you up, but then was done.
How is John Edward Thomas M.,
your Patriot/douche-orphaned son?

You’ve been so close to breaking out
a few times in your long career;
you shined in Coyote Ugly
(2000 seemed to be your year,
with that and Sex and the City—
you had a guest role, so I hear).

The next year, too, was pretty good.
You rocked in Serendipity!
Well, you were in it, I should say;
I’m using the word “rocked” loosely.
I guess that you could say your role
in I, Robot was quality?

I shouldn’t be so quick to judge:
it’s not your fault, your birthday’s cursed!
The Bounty had its mutiny,
and Mussolini died, but worse,
some thirty-four years before you,
Saddam Hussein had your birth first.

So clearly it can’t be your fault:
the day is cursed, what can you do?
Except—don’t take this the wrong way—
Jessica Alba shares it, too,
and she can’t act, but still gets jobs.
Oh wait, and Penélope Cruz.

So what? That’s just two actresses,
you can’t count Mary McDonnell.
Or Ann-Margret. Or Madge Sinclair.
Bridget, I can’t believe that all
these women share your cursed birthday.
The world is seriously small.

Okay, but still, there’s other things.
You can’t work now that you’re a mom.
It’s hard enough to learn your lines
and act them out with grace, aplomb.
But Alba has a toddler, too…
Damn, Jessica! Girl, you the bomb!